When You Imprison the Master
by Julia Caesaris
Summary: In an attempt to draw the Doctor in, one of his enemies uses the Master as bait... and gets a little more than he bargained for.


"I'm a really poor choice for bait," the Master says laconically, looking around the small room.

After a long pause, bored with the silence, he adds, "No really, I am. He hates me, he won't come. You've lost him." Another pause as he thinks. "Again, actually. What is this? The fourth time? Twelfth?"

"Be silent," his captor snaps, voice rumbling through the stones.

The Master shrugs. "_Why_? You can't kill me, that'd defeat the whole purpose of keeping me here. I mean, I suppose you could gag me, but since I'm your only source of entertainment at the moment, I really wouldn't recommend that – oh, _Omega_," he says, purely to annoy his erstwhile tormenter, "now I'm beginning to _sound_ like him. Next thing you know, I'll be wandering around, consorting with humans and saving planets." He mock-shudders. "What a _hideous_ idea."

His imprisoner, facing the door of the cell rather than the chair the Master is precariously perched on, growls. "_Silence_. You are not necessary to this. I should have thought this through and captured one of his human _pets_. _They_ would be quiet."

"You really should have," the Master tells him, leaning back in the chair and staring at the ceiling. "They would have been properly cowed by your majesty – unless, of course, they were so amused by your pretention that they laughed themselves into unconsciousness." He stares at his fingertips. "Which would work too, I suppose. The room would be silent eventually."

The Time Lord shifts his weight, displaying unease for the first time. The Master mentally marks a point for himself, and smirks. "I could _torture_ you. If you are not silent, that is what I _will_ do."

The Master leans forward, clattering his chair back onto all four legs. His tormenter – actually, more his torment_ed_ now – flinches. "Then do it. You won't, obviously, because in order for you to torture me properly, you'd need to leave this room, and you don't want to do that."

The other remains silent – something that is probably his best choice at the moment. The Master is in full flow now, and has no intention of letting _anything_ shut him up. "You won't leave this room because this is the only room you can control, isn't it? This little pocket universe has been built on Omega's, I can tell it. What a _let-down_ for you, to be reduced to scavenging off of your partner in crime's _prison_ in order to bate a second-rate Time Lord in. A second-rate Time Lord _you've_ spent quite a while chasing after. A bit depressing, I would think." The Master grins. "I suppose you could apply the same conditions to me, but then again, _I'm _ not the one who wants to kill him. I'm perfectly happy with him staying alive."

"Irregardless of your opinions," his captor rumbles, trying to cut him off.

The Master isn't inclined to give him that chance. "Wrong!" he shouts, delighted. "Irregardless is not a word. The proper form is 'regardless', and my opinions _do_ count, thank you. Given that I'm the only other person in this cell, I should have just as much weight as you do. Actually," he says, abruptly pensive, "do you even count as alive anymore? You've spent so much _time_ elsewhere."

"You will be _silent_!"

"No," the Master tells him mulishly. "I won't. You don't have any way to make me, so I see no reason to be silent. If I'm silent, then all I have to do to occupy myself is listen, and if I start listening, then I start hearing things, and since I've just got them to shut up, I'm not going to risk bringing them back again. And that sentence probably didn't make any sense to you, since you haven't been through the Time War yet." The Master shuts his mouth rapidly – the loss of Gallifreyan Standard Time has never been more apparent than on those rare occasions when he is in contact with another time traveller.

The other grumbles, and then the cell is silent for a moment.

The Master takes great pleasure in waiting precisely five seconds before beginning to speak again. "Come to think of it, I don't know where you are. If I'm not careful, I could tell you things that muck up the whole timeline! Not that I really care about that, per se, but it would cause _such_ trouble for the Doctor, and I would really rather not make him deal with you more than he has to. Even _I _have standards."

"I have enough power," his captor begins.

"To change the colour of your robes, I would hope," the Master says, drumming on his knee. "It clashes horribly with your hair."

The other stiffens. "My hair is _brown_. It does not clash with anything."

Grinning, the Master chuckles. He's won, although the other probably won't admit it for a while. "Well, I don't think those shades of orange go with brown. I'm reasonably certain they don't go with _other_ shades of orange."

The cell door swings open. A man with long auburn hair pokes his head into the room. "Oh. Charley!" He withdraws briefly.

The Master smirks. His timeline _has_ got messed up, if he's with this version of the Doctor again, but he's not protesting.

The Doctor steps into the room, grinning. "Well, Master, I was going to rescue you, but…"

A woman shoves her way through, shaking her head. "He doesn't want to save Rassilon from you. He thinks you can take care of yourself."

The Doctor flushes. "What she said."

"Right," the Master says, drawing out the word. "I actually don't think I'm going to hang around for that. Where did you put your heap of junk?" The Doctor's eyes flick suspiciously to the right. "Good to know. Goodbye!" Springing out of the chair, he dashes across the room and out the door, under the Doctor's arm.

Behind him he can hear the others.

"Drat." The Doctor sounds vaguely annoyed. "Goodbye, Rassilon!"

The cell door slams shut.

The Master collapses against a wall and begins laughing.


End file.
